Screentest: Shirbert
by irislim
Summary: How do you know if two people are right for the job? A chemistry screentest, of course. A Shirbert AU. Part 3 of the "Screentest" series.


"Are you sure about these guys? I mean, they're pretty new to the industry."

I gulp, portfolio in hand. If a gut feeling is all I have going for me, my boss isn't buying it.

"A rom-com relies entirely on the chemistry of the actors," he goes on, cufflink tapping his chin. "If we get the casting wrong - the whole movie's derailed. You are aware of that?"

I am - but you don't think I am.

I try to hide my sigh. "Sir, I am _very_ confident in the actors' ability. I've checked their past work, their personal resumes - it all looks very promising."

"Then test it."

"Huh?"

"Give them the script. Put them on camera."

"With the high level of confidentiality required by the author, sir, we - "

"Just give them small parts." He shrugs at me like the rookie that I am. "You don't have to give them the whole thing - just the main parts. See if the chemistry clicks."

If my producer's giving me the money for that - why not?

"Yes, sir."

* * *

THE PORTFOLIO

* * *

He focuses on the steps - left, right, left, right. His character is focused, driven. Gilbert Blythe may have chosen leisurely touring the world over a stable life as a farm owner, but this John Doe of a character hasn't. The latter is a man who invests every inch of his existence into pursuing his financial dreams. He's a Wall Street jerk, a determined fortune hunter in the most modern sense of the world.

"Oh!" The girl crashes into him when he turns the corner - right on cue. The papers she's carrying float around them like a choreographed whirlwind before settling on the ground.

"Excuse me," he mumbles. His hesitation is measured - pretend turned real. He crouches down to reach for a stray paper or two. "I'm really sorry, ma'am."

People didn't really say 'ma'am much these days. The screenplay writer may have some stuff to rethink.

"It's okay," the girl mumbles back from where she crouches right across him. Her hands stay busy, frantically reaching for the prop artwork she's expertly scattered. Her hair is red and in braids. Her skin looks freckled. Her gestures and frame remind him so much of _her_ that he almost forgets his lines. He doesn't see her straight on until at least half of the papers have been retrieved.

He catches just a glimpse of her face when they start standing up.

She looks like - is she - could she be -

The way her eyes light up at him when they're standing at last indicates that this most random of encounters is as surprising to her as it is to him.

"You, uhm - " He's smiling - grinning. She's Anne and she's beautiful and he's Gilbert and he's here and she's here and they're - "You work for an art studio?"

She laughs. The script tells her to laugh. Her hair is auburn now. She's lively and amazing and bewitching. He knows she's playing a part, like he is. It's her smile that disconcerts him and makes him wonder if she is.

"If waiting for them to sell my art counts," she replies, still smiling. At that very moment, he decides that she is a reincarnated fairy. No natural human being smiles like that - so breathlessly and beautifully.

"It sounds - fun." He chuckles too. The screenplay is far, far from desirable. It's her presence that makes him mutter his lines at all.

"Fun? Right - like, uhm, Wall Street fun, huh?" She lifts an eyebrow. The Bohemian artist look suits her.

"No - no," he manages to still stay on script - his heart is too full to form any words of his own. "I mean, like, _real_ fun."

"Real fun?"

"I mean, uhm - I - " His watch beeps because it was programmed to. He looks at it helplessly. The crestfallen look he sports next is heartfelt. "I - I really need to go. Could I - get your number?"

She looks weirded out - that singular way that only Anne pulls off. She's a born actress, he decides. Those poems she used to recite in high school weren't perfect by chance.

"So I should give you my number - because you just hit my artwork all over?" She laughs, teases.

"No, no - just." He pauses, lips almost grinning himself. "Just because."

Her smile is mischievous - an imp and a goddess in one.

"It sounds like I'm faking this, but I - I really don't do this often," she informs him.

"Right, right - me neither."

She laughs and flits and floats when she slides the card into his breast pocket. "Here you go, Wall Street. I'll see you around."

* * *

THE PROPOSAL

* * *

When Gilbert Blythe, handsome and tall, tumbled into her life this morning, she thought she had taken it all in stride.

All the blushing and stuttering once the director yelled 'cut' told another story.

She steels herself before she opens the studio door. This scene is not a meet cute. This scene is not a game. It's serious, heavy. Its depth and height of feeling require the toughest commitment she's ever given as an actress.

This audition is the big one.

If she gets this part, gets this movie - she's got it made.

Marilla can finally get her dream garden and medication. She can go back to her theatre training. She can even write or produce a play! Gilbert can -

A smile almost escapes her before she forces it down. She's tried not to think of him too much for the last two years. His occasional Facebook posts have been the only thread of communication between them. He's gone away - too good of a boy to be limited by Avonlea. She supported him then; of course she did. If he believed his one-way ticket to Europe was the key to his dream, then of course he should've flown when he did.

She just found herself a little unprepared to handle life without him once he _actually_ did.

"Dad! Please."

Mumbled words and shuffles echo through the very thin door. She almost smiles at the futility of how this scene could have come as a surprise to her character.

Did she really not think he was already desperately in love with her?

"Sorry!" The reply to Gilbert's previous line - and her cue - rolls out next.

She puts on her frown, make-up black eye and all, and opens the door.

"What? An - honey, what happened?"

He's running towards her right away. Her right hand drops the keys, her left hand the purse. She winces in pretend pain when his fingers brush the spot on her face.

"Here, come over. What happened?" He guides her gently towards the couch. The way he supports her body weight - one hand on her elbow and the other on the small of her back - makes her job of pretending to be weak pretty easy.

Who wouldn't melt in the hands of Gilbert Blythe?

"Muggers," she mutters when they sit down. His hands are fussing - giving her little touches all over.

"Right, of course." His eyes communicate every bit of worry his character is supposed to portray. She can't help considering what a spectacular actor he is. Those high school productions only ever worked because of all the girls who watched his every show. "Are you okay? I mean - I swear, if anyone tries to hurt you."

"I'm fine." She smiles weakly. Her small fingers curl on top of the manly ones he has on her face.

"You want a drink?" He asks every question like he's offering her his soul. She's oddly flattered by the feeling.

"Water would be nice." The weak smiling continues.

"Yes, of course, just let me - "

"Hey!" She tightens her hands before he can stand up. She meets his eye. Her lashes are wet. "Having you here is nicer."

He smiles with just a hint of pain. She almost feels that her injuries are real.

"Where did it happen?" His voice caresses each word like the way his fingers caress her cheek.

"I was bringing a piece over to that cafe place. The muggers, they - " She chokes up, chest heaving. He pulls her close. Her heart dances like a madman in her rib cage.

"I'm sorry." He kisses her hair.

"It's okay." She's comforted, at least, by memories of all their stage kisses back then. She's always wondered what they could have felt like in real life.

She'll have to find out after these screen kisses.

They stay where they are - her face against his chest - for ten long seconds. His hand runs up and down her back. Her arms wind right around his torso.

That's when the loud bang comes at last.

"Mom?" She pushes herself up a little, just a little, and stares at the women who has just tumbled out of the prop closet door. More people trail out after her. "Dad? Amy? What's going on? Is it my birthday? I'm _pretty sure_ that already happened two months ago."

The extras are all laughing. She's looking as confused as she can manage. Her fingers hit the velvet box when she tries to use the coffee table to prop herself up to her feet.

She looks down.

"Hey - wait - trust me - " Gilbert wrestles the box out of her hands. He falls on one knee. Her heart goes on a roller coaster ride because Gilbert Blythe kneeling with a diamond ring in his hand is certifiably cardiac-arrest-inducing. "This was - oh man - this was a _whole lot_ more romantic in my mind."

She smiles while crying. He's smiling. The others are smiling.

"Will you marry me?" He asks - straightforward, simple, romantic.

"Yes!" She launches at him. He catches her. They kiss - and the cheers around them sound dimmer than the ones in her heart.

* * *

THE PRENUP

* * *

It's their third scene before you know it, but the taste of her lips still lingers in his mouth - and it's hard to forget how solemn this next one is supposed to be.

The costume guy, Dad in the last scene, is a lawyer now. The prop suit looks ridiculous on his skinny frame, but Gilbert keeps his cool. Professional actors don't break. They don't lose their cool or forget their lines. They don't screw up auditions just because they've been cast to star across the love of their life.

It's not like the desk or the chairs or the huge stack of paper with 'PRE-NUP' Sharpied on top are any more real than the tiny set's three occupants anyway.

He's Gilbert Blythe. He can do this.

"So?" Fake lawyer guy lifts a brow at them. Something tells Gilbert that this one is an aspiring actor too.

Gilbert shrugs. "Ladies first?"

He half-looks at Anne, shoulders still tilted. He uses a finger to nudge the stack closer to her.

She shrugs too. Her face looks pained. He hopes it's just a character thing.

"Yeah," she mumbles before sighing. "Unless, you, uhm - wanna go through it first?"

"Right."

The awkwardness feels only partly fake. He picks up the stack of scratch paper and flips through it like it contains essays on why spaghettis don't grow on trees. It's nonsensical, useless.

He scoffs when the last chunk of pages fall shut.

"I - I don't - " He narrows his eyes. Why anyone would consider getting a prenup if he's marrying Anne is a ridiculous notion.

"I don't need it," he says when she does. He almost smiles at the effortless rapport.

He looks up, meets her eye - greys and browns in perfect exchange. He smiles gradually, joyful and serene. She smiles back, lively and glorious.

He repeats that mental note to ask her out for coffee later.

Surely, even just the excuse of catching up again would warrant that - right?

"Sir, madame," fake lawyer talks. Gilbert doesn't break his gaze with Anne - never. "I assure you this is for your own benefit. If your families wish for this document to protect - "

"I don't need it," fake groom insists. He's smiling, floating. "She can keep the house, whatever."

"And he can keep the heirlooms," Anne replies.

"I urge you to reconsider," costume guy goes on. The dramatic flair in his voice is undeniable. "It's been known that couples who - "

"No." It's effortless matching Anne word for word.

Gilbert's smile grows.

He barely hears the director yelling 'cut.'

* * *

THE PROMOTION

* * *

The prop apron makes her look domesticated. The set kitchen is too spotless to be convincing. She feels like an actress playing out her own life. It's all too distant and surreal.

Did Gilbert really walk her home after three cups of coffee last night? Did that kiss in the lobby actually happen - and lead to all that making out on her couch? The idea of bringing handsome, confident, _perfect_ Gilbert Blythe up to her ratty apartment almost makes her cringe in retrospect.

But she smiles, and she relives the moments she's happy actually _did_ happen. Inspecting the memories too closely means blushing at her forwardness - at the way she'd pulled him close and tugged him into the elevator, or the way she laughed at his needing permission to kiss her. He didn't complain though, so she'd like to think she did the right thing.

The sound of keys being dropped forcefully onto the console table makes her smile wider. He's here - her Gilbert - her pretend husband.

"Honey, is that you?" She asks, hands busy with her pretend dish. She's read the script. She knows what's coming. It breaks her heart that he'll need to put on all that pain - but she's waiting for what happens _after_ that.

The heavy, masculine moan travels through the open set.

"Hon?" She turns around slowly.

"Yeah." He sounds tired, depressed.

She walks closer, still sporting the vestiges of her smile. "You're home. I've been so excited. I thought that - "

His haggard face (makeup does wonders) stares back at her desperately.

"Yeah, I, uhm - " He runs a hand over his face. His tie is askew. The way his clothes are arranged strike the perfect image of a man whose dreams had been shattered. He swallows and clears his throat before she can reach him. "He, uhm - Devons got the promotion. I guess I was wrong to have expec - "

Her lips land on his the exact moment her hands latch around his neck. She kisses him fiercely, every thought abandoned. As far as this film universe is concerned, he's her husband and he's hurting and she can't allow that to happen.

He responds to her kiss, of course - with a hunger and a sorrow she hadn't felt from last night's tender pecks and grazes. She walks backwards and he steps forward, until the back of her knees hit the arm of the floral sofa. She's ready to pull him down when his lips let go.

"I - I'm sorry." He's panting. His eyes are bottomless. His hands are still planted firmly on her hips. His eyes search and question.

"Don't be." She kisses him again.

They fall gracefully on the couch, her back against the silky fabric. Her apron, funnily enough, is still trapped between them. The way their hands wander makes his shirt and her hair ties fall away pretty fast.

He's enticingly shirtless - and she's extremely exposed by her rumpled apron and bunched-up shirt (and skirt) - when he lifts away again. He hovers above her. Her hands grip the biceps that speak clearly of his work-out regime.

"I'm - I'm sorry." His words and his eyes say completely different things. "I - "

"What?" She asks. She feels a little like prey trapped beneath him like this.

She likes the feeling more than she thought she would.

"I don't need pity sex, okay?" He seems to smile a little. His eyes keep talking even after his mouth stops.

It's her turn to smile. Her fingers trace his skin until they're back behind his neck. "It's never pity from me."

"Then what?" He's being teasingly resistant to her efforts to pull him back down.

"Well," she whispers when he's just two inches away. "You happen to be really hot."

It seems appropriate to kiss after a declaration like that. It's just natural to nip and sigh and lick and touch. It doesn't take much deliberation to shrug off her apron, or to skim her fingers along the waistline of his jeans.

She doesn't even remember if there were any other lines after that.

* * *

THE PICTURE

* * *

"Hey."

He looks up from his spot on the park bench. He knows his eye bags are real.

No one really walks away from a session like that with Anne Shirley and not get emotionally depleted. She gives so much as an actress that he's had to match her word for word, stride for stride, kiss for kiss. It's heaven when he kisses her. It's hell when he remembers it's all just an act.

He just hopes she'll say 'yes' again to coffee tonight.

"Hey," he replies limply. His eyes crinkle a little to match his small smile. The weight of his character's actions almost flattens him. How could he? Why would he have strayed, have wandered from his marriage vows to this wonderful woman? "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

She nods curtly before sitting down beside him.

They don't say much. The large fan emulates the autumn wind remarkably well for an audition set. Every second seems to burn.

After one long, painful moment of hesitation, he hands the picture he's been holding to her. She takes it.

"I know I don't look half as good as I did in that picture, but I mean - that's what engagement photos are for, right?" He scoffs at himself. His nerves are inexplicable and all-encompassing. He runs his hands up and down his thighs. He can't decide to look at her or not. She feels her every move. "They're, like, proof that we used to look good."

"You still look hot." Her voice is level - and he doesn't even notice the hint of a smile until he looks up.

Then it's his turn to smile a little.

"So do you."

She does. She really does. A wig and some old lady clothes can't hide her natural vibrance. Her hair is as fiery as ever, her figure and fingers as slender.

"I'm sorry about Frank," she apologizes. When she looks up, her eyes are raw and honest.

"No, no - _I'm_ sorry."

"He's just a - _friend_. Well, he should have been. He - "

"My career isn't everything. I know that now."

She regards him tentatively. His heart beats as wildly as a child with a toy gong.

"Yeah," she whispers, so softly he wonders if the microphone could pick it up. "Yeah, it isn't."

They both look down when the feelings get too much, too fast. Yesterday, she had reemerged into his life in the most surprising and miraculous way. Today, he's tasked to feel what it's like to have loved her, married her, betrayed her, and then see her broken.

The exercise is frankly overwhelming.

"But you know what is?" Her voice, older and wiser, cuts through his thoughts.

"What is what?"

"What's everything."

He turns up to find her already looking at him.

Her eyes are full, as full as his heart. He takes her hand. It's his turn to whisper, carefully. "What is?"

"You."

One word - one word is all it takes.

The floodgates open, and they're crying and kissing and hugging all at the same time. Two tears find his chin and drip on to her shoulder. His kisses trail her jaw until they meet her lips. She kisses him back, heartbreak and hope with every touch. He pulls her closer - not quite on his lap - just close enough to share the warmth of her body.

When the director calls 'cut' and they part and he's panting and she's panting, he's determined to ask her out for tonight - and for every night after that.

He smiles at her. She smiles back.

He hopes she'll say 'yes.'

He hopes she'll keep saying 'yes.'

 _That_ other role is what really counts.

* * *

 _A/N: Did you hear about season 2 for "Anne with an E"? I am so excited! Thank you for reading this :)_


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